Ethereal Requiem
by Orifiel
Summary: Originally used as a political pawn by her ambitious family, Meleske Direnni chooses one destiny over another when she learns of the dragon that resides within her soul and whispers from her blood. As she casts off her Altmer mentality through experiences with danger, love, and honor, there are those who would see her perish whether as the Dragonborn or as the new ruler of Skyrim.
1. Chapter I

**Title:** Ethereal Requiem

**Summary:** Originally used as a political pawn by her ambitious family, Meleske Direnni chooses one destiny over another when she learns of the dragon that resides within her soul and whispers from her blood. As she casts off her Altmer mentality through experiences with danger, love, and honor, there are those who would see her perish whether as the Dragonborn or as the new ruler of Skyrim.

**A/N:** After spending a year running around Skyrim and causing havoc left and right with several dysfunctional characters, I decided to read up on the lore of the Elder Scrolls series. I was pleasantly surprised to discover how vast and rich the history of Tamriel is. In fact, I was so inspired that I created a new character for the sole purpose of becoming this fanfic's protagonist. And so I would like to introduce my contribution to the canon Direnni bloodline, Meleske Direnni.

x-x-x-x-x

**- I -**

As she trudged the last few steps of the dirt path, blood-stained sword glinting in hand and muscles still taut from battle, Meleske Direnni was a sight to behold. And not necessarily in a good way. Or even in a visually acceptable way.

The Altmer woman's raven tresses fell in a tangled mess over her shoulders, with the shorter strands sticking out in all directions as if she'd been on the wrong end of a lightning spell. Her clothing, once among the finest embroidered silk garments in the Isle of Balfiera, now barely retained her modesty as it hung in shreds on her slender figure, covering only enough to stave off public ridicule. Slashes and first degree burns marred her fair skin from her face to her bare feet. Her slanted golden eyes squinted against the sun's reflection in the river running parallel to the path. Most of her senses had gone numb during her fight to escape, but her vision had grown more sensitive to the intensity of the light.

She had spotted the town from a ledge some distance back, and even though her opinion of this province was at an all-time low for yanking her headfirst into its lunatic fiascos, she could acknowledge when she needed help. The closer proximity to the water helped to cool her body temperature and soothed the worst of her burns. Two young children that had been playing in the road saw her approaching and quickly ran inside one of the houses. She finally passed beneath the watch bridge that marked the entrance of the town, weary and hoping to find a place to rest.

The first thing that greeted her was an old woman's shrieking. "Dragon! I saw a dragon!"

Meleske tensed as the image of the enormous winged reptile came to mind. Its sudden appearance had been both a miracle and a curse, having narrowly saved her from beheading by the Imperial Legion, but then it had tried to roast her along with every other soul present at that godforsaken human settlement. The nightmare of this dreadful excursion into Nord land would live with her for the rest of her days, all for a political arrangement she had opposed from the beginning.

A young blond man, revealing himself to be the screeching woman's son, sighed in exasperation as he faced her. "Dragons, now, is it? Please, Mother. If you keep on like this everyone in town will think you're crazy."

"No, the old bat has it right," Meleske cut in, far too irritated over her recent traumatic experience to bother with manners. "Your neighbors on the other side of that mountain back there are all likely dead."

In all honesty, sensitivity was not her strong suit, a fact she felt no remorse over when the two Nords turned to her with mixed expressions of shock and disgust. "Who are you?" the man demanded, not quite keeping his eyes from flickering over her near naked body.

The temptation to hack his skull in two was almost overwhelming. "Someone who survived that flying demon's annihilation of the town once called Helgen. Now, I am very tired and very angry, so if you could direct me to the nearest inn, I will promptly remove my indecent appearance from your sight." She directed these last words at the old woman, whose condemning gaze could have disintegrated a lesser person on the spot.

"Sven, take this filthy, pointy-eared trollop to Delphine and see if she can do something about her wicked elven impropriety—" The woman would have kept on with her racist remarks had the hem of her skirt not just been set aflame. With an ear-piercing scream, she began to bat at it furiously.

Although Meleske had been reserving the remainder of her magicka for healing herself in the privacy of a rented room, she decided it would serve a better purpose this way. "Say that again, you abominable hag," she seethed, lowering the palm that had cast the fire spell. "You are what, in your sixth decade of life? I am more than twice your age! If you do not begin respecting your elders, I will be forced to show you your place. Do you understand? Well?"

To her annoyance, the woman was too busy attempting to extinguish herself to answer. Finally, when her efforts failed to make any progress in snuffing out the flames, she turned on her heel and fled through the door of her house. Sven, who had just stood there while his mother was burning alive, shook it off with a roll of his eyes.

"So dragons have truly returned? You'd best tell the Jarl of Whiterun. He needs to know about this," he told Meleske.

She scowled so deeply that the cuts on her face stung even more. "Why must I be the one to play messenger to your human rulers? Tell me something useful, such as a location where I might change myself out of this hideous look."

"Just down the road to the right is the Sleeping Giant Inn, where I work as a bard in the evenings," Sven replied. "I would escort you myself, but it's, well, right there and I'm scheduled to visit a beautiful woman named Camilla at this time. Although," he added, now openly leering at her exposed cleavage, "if you'd like to leave your room door unlocked after I finish my shift, it looks like you could use some company throughout the night."

"And it looks like you are begging to join your mother in spontaneous combustion," she returned acidly, outraged at his nerve. "Your further services are unnecessary, fiend. Besides, I don't like men shorter than me. Farewell." With that, she began to march her way to the building displaying the large tavern sign.

While the population here seemed rather small—and more so because she easily towered in height over most citizens of Skyrim—she drew stares from all the residents who were out and about. The blacksmith, who had been hammering away at his anvil, not only ceased his work but also dropped his tool into the smoldering coals when he caught sight of her. A hefty bearded man who had been leaning idly against the post in front of the local trading goods shop nearly toppled over when she passed him by. A middle-aged blonde woman with an armful of chopped firewood froze in her tracks, mouth agape, when she was about to cross her path.

_Imbeciles,_ Meleske thought savagely. _Aren't these snow-loving neanderthals supposed to be accustomed to seeing the outcome of battle?_

It wasn't until she threw open the door to the inn and almost collided with another woman did anyone bother to find words to address her presence.

"What in Oblivion!" exclaimed the individual she had nearly knocked over. This one was a sturdily built older female, shorter than average, with golden hair tied back in a sensible fashion. Meleske could tell immediately that she wasn't a Nord, but a Breton.

"Out of my way, if you please," Meleske said in a tone as close to politeness as was possible for her when communicating with a human.

The Breton's eyes were wide with astonishment, and she didn't move as she took in Meleske's grimy and injured state. "What in the name of Akatosh happened to you? Come in, I'm the innkeeper, Delphine."

"Ah, excellent." Meleske stepped inside at Delphine's beckoning and was surrounded by the aroma of smoky firewood and cooking food. The only other occupant in the common area was the bartender, a surly-looking man with a permanently creased brow, which rose in question at her entry. To his credit, he didn't gawk like the other townspeople had.

"Orgnar, go rouse that useless lout Embry from his loitering and have him bring in bucketfuls of water from the river," Delphine ordered the bartender.

Orgnar grunted in compliance and headed for the door without a word. Delphine took Meleske by the arm and steered her to one of the vacant rooms for rent. "I'm not usually in the habit of offering aid to every stranger that shows up at my door looking like death, but I can provide you with a bath and spare clothes," said the innkeeper as she dragged a large shallow basin from beneath the wardrobe. "As for room and food, however, I can't help you unless you have the coin."

"I should have enough for a night's stay," Meleske assured her, referring to the small bag of gold still strapped inside the remnants of her corset. She had filched it from a soldier's corpse during the chaos created by the dragon attack, along with the iron sword she had swung around like a madwoman to defend herself against those trying to prevent her escape. She lowered the bloody sword onto the floor and winced as the muscles in her back protested the movement.

Delphine had laid out a simple green and tan dress on the bed and was now waiting with her arms crossed for the bathwater to arrive. Eyeing Meleske with a calculating look, she asked, "So what brings you to Riverwood looking like that?"

"It is a very long and cumbersome tale that I wouldn't dream of boring you with."

"Then skip to the good part."

_I see. The price for the bath,_ Meleske concluded, _is information._ "Fine. If you must know, that senile old harpy residing at the edge of town isn't suffering the onset of dementia when she prattles on about seeing dragons," she said. "I was at Helgen three or four hours ago when the monster swooped down from the sky and burned the entire place to the ground."

Delphine's face suddenly became an impassive mask, but not before Meleske caught a shadow of cold dread move over her eyes. The action was a bit suspicious, but she dismissed it as the standard fear of legends coming to life. Personally, their existence did not surprise her in the slightest. As an Altmer, she was related to people who had lived for centuries and claimed to have records passed down by their ancestors that documented instances of war with the beasts. And while she was considered at the brink of her adulthood, her knowledge of the difference between extinct and dormant races surpassed that of the most scholarly humans. Dragons had never been proven to have completely died out.

"A dragon, eh? Interesting. But you're not from Helgen, are you?" Delphine inquired, staring hard at her. "What's your name, high elf?"

"My name is Meleske, and no, I am most definitely not from anywhere in this awful, barbaric country," she snarled before launching into a lengthy, bitter tirade. "I was on a journey to Riften with my companions when our carriage was attacked at the southern border by a group of crazed mages. The only ones who survived were myself and one other, but she was mistakenly struck down by some delirious Stormcloak rebel running from the Imperial Legion. The rebels were caught, arrested, and carted off to Helgen to be executed, and _I_ along with them," she finished lividly. "The irony of it all is that the dragon is what spared me from losing my head."

She would never forget the black wings that eclipsed the sun, the piercing amber eyes that struck terror far greater than that caused by the raised axe about to cleave into her neck. And when it opened its mouth… the sound that emerged had shaken her to her very core, rode her blood in such a familiar way that for a moment, she questioned who and what she was. Both her savior and her tormentor, the dragon had changed her fate.

Delphine watched her as she relived the memory. The silence stretched on, and by the time Meleske noticed the other's inquisitive expression, she realized she might have said too much. Choosing to change the subject, she opened her mouth and shifted slightly to the right—a mistake, for the vanity mirror nearby allowed her a generous glimpse of herself. The sight nearly stopped her heart.

Jaw dropping to the floor, she propelled herself forward until her lower abdomen hit the edge of the vanity's wood finish, hands pressed flat against the glass as if trying to make certain the reflection was truly hers. No wonder everyone had gaped at her. She was a walking terror, a horrifying slashed-up creature barely recognizable as her elegant and graceful self. In fact, if the Altmeri people had their own version of the draugr, she would be the poster child and point of reference for all artistic depictions. The damage to her beauty was extensive and, if she didn't heal herself soon, permanent.

She gazed at the innkeeper imploringly. "I would sell my soul right now for a healing or magicka potion, so please tell me you have one or the other in stock."

"I don't, sorry," Delphine replied with utter frankness. "But," she added when Meleske seemed to die a little inside, "I have an Alchemy Lab that you can use to make one once you gather the ingredients."

_Fantastic… I've already used my Highborn ability once today. I'll have to venture out like this just to collect the items to fix it._

Further conversation was interrupted by the sounds of heavy footsteps and sloshing water approaching. The bearded man from earlier appeared in the doorway, carrying a full bucket in each hand. He was followed by another, a curious male Bosmer, who carried two more buckets for her bath. Both men glanced at Meleske as she quickly pushed herself from the mirror, hoping they hadn't witnessed her pitiful _"oh, woe is me"_ pose.

"Embry. I see you had to recruit Faendal to help with such a simple task," Delphine remarked with disapproval. "You could have made two trips, you know."

"He's the one who offered to help," Embry retorted. "Wanted to see the tattered up elf everyone was talking about."

"Tattered?" Meleske rumbled ominously.

"I was just interested to hear that another elf was in the area," the Bosmer piped up as he set the buckets down next to the basin and brushed his long hair to the side. Turning to give her a smile, he said, "Greetings, friend. It's nice to see the face of an elven cousin here in Skyrim."

She nodded at him shortly. "Although my face is practically disfigured at the moment, likewise. I appreciate you delivering the water."

"What about me?" Embry asked with a frown.

"Oh. I suppose that goes for you, too, peasant."

His cheeks took on an offended flush, but before he could say anything else, Delphine was pushing him and Faendal out the door. "Just take your time. I'll be out here with Orgnar when you're finished," she told Meleske and shut the door firmly behind them.

Finally left to herself, the Altmer wasted no time in throwing off her shredded clothes and hopping into the basin. It was a crude way to bathe, as she was used to the luxury of a ceramic tub with flowing spring water, but certainly a more appealing option than splashing around naked in a river. For one thing, she couldn't swim. Then there was the slight issue with getting caught by aggressive foes during her most vulnerable state. And from what she'd seen of Skyrim thus far, there was no shortage of potential enemies—man and beast alike—to a member of the Direnni Clan.

The bath was both refreshing and painful to her wounds. With all the dirt and grime washed away, she could examine herself and assess the damage more clearly. Her arms and legs sustained the majority of the injuries, but her face and torso sported a fair percentage of cuts and burns. To her grief, she discovered that the severity of one particular slash running diagonally down her right cheekbone would most likely result in scarring.

"Bloody Oblivion," she muttered, turning away from the vanity mirror to reach for the dress on the bed.

There was no point in trying to make it to Riften now. Not only would she be several days late, she had lost all her money and documents during the attack on her carriage, and she was no longer presentable enough to fill her role in the arrangement. The thought both distressed and thrilled her. On one hand, she was trapped in this frozen wasteland with no sure way to get word to her family of her situation and had embarrassingly limited experience in fending for herself. Not to mention she had the social skills of a hacksaw. But on the other, this may be her chance to start over, to live her life without having to bend to the will of her clan branch.

She only wished she knew what the right decision was.

A commotion outside stirred her from her mulling and drew her to the window. From where she was, she could make out a crowd gathered in the road, the angry buzz of voices telling her that there was a heated argument. She was about to close the shutters and leave the Nords to their own trivial quarreling when she spotted a familiar uniform partly obscured by several bodies. The unmistakable blue sash and quilted armor brought a new boil to her blood as she recognized the Stormcloak garment. Whirling around, she banged open the door to her room—startling Orgnar at the bar—and marched straight out of the inn to join the crowd.

The volume of the spat reached a headache-inducing level as she elbowed her way to the center, ignoring her complaining wounds. When she saw who the Stormcloak was, and who he was arguing with, her temper snapped.

"_YOU!_" she roared, feeling the rush of her magicka restoring as her Highborn ability did the impossible by activating itself for the second time in one day.

Ralof, the Stormcloak who had killed her handmaid in his rush to lose the soldiers giving chase near the border, abruptly ceased his yelling and spun around to face her. Next to him stood Hadvar, the Imperial soldier who had sentenced her to death at the order of his superior officer, and he shut his mouth as well when his gaze drifted to her. Both men looked worse for wear, similar to the way she had before her bath. The entire crowd fell silent at her daunting presence. A fire spell ignited in both palms and infused her with a menacing aura that sent many people several steps back.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't finish what that dragon started," Meleske thundered, hands itching desperately to blast them.

A light touch at her shoulder held her back. "Wait, friend. They both have family here," said Faendal.

As if that mattered to her. She despised these inferior beings with a passion. Even though in the back of her mind she knew her prejudice was born from her parents' repetitive vocal condescension of the human race, they had done nothing to convince her that they deserved her respect. And after suffering at the actions of these two cretins, they had shown her that they didn't even deserve her mercy.

Yet, as she prepared to take out her frustrations on their insufferable hides, her body froze when the two children she had seen while approaching Riverwood, a boy and a girl, threw themselves in the line of fire to defend the men. They regarded her with expressions full of defiance and challenge, their small arms rising over their heads to present themselves as tiny human shields. She saw the trembling in their fingertips, the fear that gripped them even as they held their ground courageously before the towering Altmer woman. A collective gasp rolled over the townspeople around them, followed by the whimpering of the mothers.

Meleske didn't hear them. She didn't think as she looked the children straight in the eyes and drew back her hands. A woman screamed when the flames in her palms surged upward in a blinding explosion, illuminating the darkening sky with an intensity that rivaled the dragon's own breath. When the radiance subsided, the children remained in their positions, shaken but unharmed, while Meleske lowered her hands and charged her way out of the crowd.

She loathed them all for testing her this way and watching her fail. Through her hatred and fury, something inside had betrayed her. It was a horrible sensation of unwanted compassion, of conscience she had never known before. It influenced her judgment, flowed through her in airy whispers of virtue.

It felt like humanity.

x-x-x-x-x

**A/N:** I completely reworked this chapter from its first draft, and am much happier with this version. Thank you for reading! There will be more of the sharp-tongued Meleske Direnni to come soon.


	2. Chapter II

**- II -**

The break of dawn found Meleske perched on the edge of the bed, using a comb to viciously wage war on the tangles in her still-damp hair. It had been a restless night, comprised more of tossing and aggravated grumbling than unconsciousness. Her muscles ached despite the number of times she healed herself, rendering her sore and contributing to her foul mood. She suspected the second activation of her Highborn ability to be the culprit, although she couldn't be sure. The bags beneath her eyes were heavy with fatigue, but her mind would continue to rob her of rest should she attempt sleep again.

Even as she fumed silently in the stillness of her room, the events of the previous evening plagued her thoughts. Dodging certain death and surviving a town's total destruction were feats attributed to sheer luck and the temporary favor of the gods. Failing to enact her rightful vengeance on the Stormcloak and the Legionnaire, all because of the damned brats offering themselves as sacrifice, was due to her own shortcomings as a Mer. Some would call it taking the moral path, an adult refusing to strike the most innocent of living beings. But she did not see it as acting moral. She saw it as being weak.

Her parents had taught her two things: one, Mer were superior to Man. End of story. Two, if Man were to cause any form of harm, offense, or even relative inconvenience to Mer, then Mer should always collect justice, no matter the cost. It was an admittedly extreme standpoint to be carrying around, but such was the way hers had been shaped. If her parents had seen her, walking away from the crowd without so much as conjuring a temperamental fireworks display, they would have exiled her from the Isle of Balfiera.

The comb was discarded on the bed when she finished taming her shoulder-length tresses. She rose to her feet, feeling every excruciating pull of her stiff body, and dragged herself to the wooden table next to the wardrobe. She was about to collect her belongings and make a stealthy departure from Riverwood when Delphine strode in without knocking.

Pinning her host with a withering glare, Meleske said through clenched teeth, "I realize this is your inn and all, but could you at least give notice before entering?"

"I thought you might attempt to sneak out," Delphine replied, staring pointedly at the coin purse and sword in her hands, "so I came to stop you."

"But I already paid you for this overpriced room," Meleske protested, waving the nearly empty coin purse accusingly as the one remaining gold coin bounced around inside.

The innkeeper fought back a wry grin and tossed over a pair of fur boots that the other barely had time to catch. "I'd imagine your trek to your next destination would be quite painful with bare feet."

Meleske narrowed her eyes at the footwear suspiciously. "I can't afford these."

"That's why I'm asking you to pay with your time and cooperation." Delphine gestured to someone over her shoulder and stepped aside to hold open the door for them.

The items dropped out of Meleske's arms and hit the floor with a loud clatter when Ralof and Hadvar entered with caution. She swung a reproachful look toward Delphine, who ignored her and asked the men to take seats at the chairs on the opposite sides of the room. They had cleaned up considerably and changed out of their respective uniforms, but appeared to have had about as much sleep as she did. The tension in the air was so thick that one could almost choke on it. Meleske felt her body temperature rising again, and she considered this invasion of her space an invitation to take them out. As soon as the fire spell sparked to life in her palms, however, Delphine shut her down with a quick shock of an adept level lightning spell.

"Akatosh's arse!" Meleske swore, running her hands up and down her arms in an effort to erase the lingering shaking of her joints. "All right, I yield! What the devil are you thinking bringing these two miscreants here, anyway?"

The "miscreants" were too busy glowering at each other to offer her hostility any acknowledgement. Both had yet to say a word, but their deep reluctance to spend any amount of time within the other's vicinity was clear as day.

Delphine closed the door and turned to them with a grim expression. "I need all of you to get your stories straight about the dragon's appearance so I know exactly what we're dealing with," she declared. "If it caused as much devastation as Meleske described, we really will need to send word to the Jarl of Whiterun."

That mollified them long enough to shift their attention to her. Meleske trudged to the bed and sat at the base of the headboard, as far away from the two men as possible. Delphine stationed herself in front of the exit and placed her hands on her hips as she waited for the cold silence to break. She looked every bit like a prison warden, blocking their primary way out and able to electrocute them if they tried to climb out the window.

Finally, Meleske grew impatient enough to snap, "Oh, for the love of the Nines, I'll go first then!" and proceeded to rant about how she had ended up on the chopping block, embellishing her version of the tale with blatant insults toward the Stormcloak rebels and the Imperial Legion.

Her story was followed by Ralof's input, and then Hadvar's. All three recounts of the first half of events at Helgen were fairly synchronized, more or less, but once they reached the part about finding a way to escape the smoldering town, Ralof and Hadvar had the audacity to briefly unite and point resentful fingers in Meleske's direction for rejecting each of their offers of help.

"We had reached an intact keep and were trying to lead her to safety," Ralof told Delphine while frowning deeply.

"And she didn't even choose to go with one of us, she simply charged through on her own," said Hadvar, clearly affronted.

"Well, obviously I wasn't going to be caught dead with either of you since I hate you both," Meleske snarled.

Delphine's blank face spoke volumes of her interest in the dispute among them. Which was to say, none. But before she could turn the subject back to the dragon, Ralof decided that now was the time to try to counter Meleske's aggression.

"Your hatred is understandable because of what I did to your companion," the Stormcloak began, recalling how she had cursed him three ways to Oblivion with just her mouth after the act, "but you should have allowed me to escort you through the keep. You attacked my comrades inside and left them to die in pools of their own blood."

She drew herself up in her seated position, golden eyes glittering dangerously. "Now listen here, Olaf—"

"Ralof."

"Whatever. That was my favorite and last handmaid whom you absentmindedly impaled with your sword while running from those inept Legionnaires, so your fellow rebels had it coming," she spat. Then, swinging her malevolent gaze to the Imperial soldier, she continued, "And you! I don't even know what your name is—"

"Hadvar."

"—Nor do I care, but you've got some nerve breathing the same air as me when you're the one who gave out my death sentence." Had she been any less of a lady, she would have been foaming at the mouth.

Delphine cleared her throat and stepped forward. Meleske looked two seconds away from throwing herself at one of the men to scratch out his eyes, and the last thing she needed was the corpse of either a Stormcloak or an Imperial decorating the floor of her inn. "Enough. I think I understand. Meleske, I don't know if you still plan on going to Riften, but you're going to need a wagon or a horse to get anywhere in Skyrim." She reached behind her and opened the door, indicating that they were free to go.

Predictably, the Altmer was the first to shoot to her feet. Delphine continued, "The closest city to here is Whiterun, which will have a wagon for hire. If you visit the jarl and inform him of the dragon situation, I'll provide you with traveling supplies and reimburse you for the cost of this room."

Meleske hesitated warily. "Why me? Have one of _them_ do it. And what makes you think I want your help?"

"Ralof is going to Windhelm and Hadvar is going to Solitude." Delphine's smirk was positively infuriating. "The way you carry yourself and your mentioning of having a handmaid imply that you're part of Altmeri nobility. Skyrim is a dangerous place, princess. You're going to need all the help you can get."

x-x-x-x-x

By the time Meleske stepped outside into the fresh morning air, with a new traveling pack strapped to her shoulders, she was ready to maim anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path. The townspeople steered clear of her and kept their spiteful glances discreet as she heatedly adjusted her Hide Armor, finding the itchy material intolerable. Delphine had made good on her word that she'd provide her with supplies, and even "happened to find" some spare healing, magicka, and stamina potions to fill her pack. The armor was an added bonus, although Meleske suspected that Delphine had chosen the most hideous and uncomfortable set on purpose, and she'd drawn the line when Delphine tried to place the matching helmet onto her head.

"If I wanted to look that ridiculous, I would have just worn a bloody bucket!" she had yelled before jumping out of reach and bolting out of the inn.

Now she stood in wait, keeping an eye out in case the unsightly metal headpiece made a reappearance, and wondered who her traveling companion would be. Delphine had told her that someone from town—_not Ralof or Hadvar_, she had specified when Meleske began to throw a tantrum—would be escorting her to Whiterun. She speculated as to whether this person would get her lost on purpose, leading her to her death in retribution for her actions the day before.

And when she saw Sven round the corner and come trotting to her with an absurdly big smile on his face, her heart sank. Not because she was worried he would lead her astray—not that the dim-witted fool could pull off such a scheme successfully—but because she would rather just fall dead right there than spend a day's journey with him.

"Ho! High elf maiden!" he greeted as he came to a stop in front of her.

"Please tell me you're not the one who will be taking me to Whiterun." She didn't bother to mask the dismay pouring out in waves from her voice.

"Oh no, not I, but I'm flattered that you would request me for such a task," replied the oblivious bard, who was in immediate danger of expiring at the hands of the enraged Altmer. "I was only hoping if, before you go, you could give this to Camilla Valerius for me." He produced a folded letter from his pocket and handed it to her.

"What is this?" she demanded, holding the paper away from her with her thumb and index finger as if it were diseased.

"That wood elf, Faendal, has been harboring romantic notions for Camilla even though I keep telling him she's already mine," Sven sniffed disdainfully. "I wrote a letter full of venomous nonsense and signed it under his name. If you give it to her, that should put a stop to any communication between them."

Meleske gaped at him in disbelief. A few seconds passed. And then… _"Were you born completely brainless or did you just grow up that way?"_ she exploded, actually shaking from the built-up enmity finally finding release. The letter burst into flame and fell to the ground, the embers fluttering in the breeze. "I'm already playing courier to the Jarl of Windhelm on matters that are actually of some significance! I will not be involved in your inane, juvenile plots, and—really? Just… _really?_" She was having such a difficult time wrapping her head around the idiocy of the request that she was at a loss for words. "Go. Just. Go."

He tried to look down his nose at her, which failed considering she stood over half a foot taller than him. "Well! No need to be so rude—"

"_Get out of my sight before I bend you over and shove your flute where the sun doesn't shine."_

That certainly got him moving. With an indignant sound caught in his throat, he turned tail and scurried away without looking back.

She exhaled irritably and started scratching at her armor with renewed vigor to occupy her hands and quell the urge to send a stream of flames after him. _Where is my blasted escort? Every minute spent in this town increases my risk of madness._

Just as she had grown tired of waiting and resolved to head to Whiterun by herself, something caught her attention. A dog that had been walking on the road veered into the space between the inn and the trading goods shop. When a quick glance around showed no one coming, she shifted the weight of her pack and followed it. The dog stopped behind the inn, sensing her, and turned around to pant happily in her direction. She came closer, identifying it as male when he relieved himself precariously close to the patch of cabbages next to the building. He finished his business and approached her, tail wagging.

Checking to make sure no witnesses were present, she crouched down and ran affectionate fingers over his head and ears. "Oh, you adorable, filthy, smelly mongrel," she gushed, feeling all her anger evaporate and her heart swell for the dog as he licked her face. "You need a long dip in the river and, more importantly, a mint, but I still think you are the most endearing animal alive."

The stifled chuckle behind her froze her blood. "So, you're actually a dog lover, are you?" Faendal asked in amusement.

Rotating her head stiffly toward him, she bit out, "Why do you always pop up at the most inopportune moments?"

He only grinned as she straightened and allowed the dog to go on his way. "Well, hopefully you'll forgive me this time because I'm to escort you to Whiterun."

She felt more relief than she cared to admit at the news. "Ah, I see. Took you long enough. We should get going, then."

"Uh, but before we go…" He fumbled in his pack and took out a piece of paper that Meleske's eyes zeroed in on. "Sven and I have been feuding over this woman, Camilla Valerius. I have written an unintelligent letter on his behalf and was wondering if you could—"

The letter was snatched out of his hand and ripped to shreds before he could finish. "Has this place infected you with its stupidity?" she fairly roared into his astonished face, the remnants of his letter floating down around them. "That idiot bard asked me the same thing. You want my input? Grow a pair and talk to her yourself."

Faendal stared after her, dumbfounded, as she stomped away. "Did you just say 'grow a pair'?"

"Come along, tree-hugger. The day is wasting," she called back.

"Hey, not all Bosmer worship trees, you know."

He hurried to keep up with her long strides and informed her that she was going in the wrong direction. After some arguing over orienteering and land navigation, they settled into a moderate pace on the path to Whiterun. His attempts at conversation were met with terse muttering and exasperated sighs, so he gave up and just tried to enjoy the scenery. Unfortunately, even that was impossible with his traveling companion because when she wasn't grumbling about how much she hated Skyrim, she was tearing off chunks of her armor and tossing them into the surrounding foliage. And despite implying earlier that he was an exception to the wood elf stereotype of protecting nature, he found himself retrieving every single piece of hide almost as quickly as she discarded them.

Meleske, deaf to Faendal's requests to stop littering, stared wistfully in the distance as she ripped off a particularly itchy part of her skirt layer and chucked it over her shoulder. She had never truly appreciated all the splendid clothing given to her every year back home. Her wardrobe consisted of the latest fashions from Cyrodiil, exotic accessories from Elsweyr, fancy heeled shoes from Summerset Isle, and various trinkets from the other provinces. She even dared say that she owned a fur coat imported from Skyrim.

Now that she was adorned in this (possibly flea-infested) getup, she could suddenly see the shimmering patterns cast by her crystal chandelier, smell the vase of fresh lavender sitting on her vanity table, feel the softness of the satin robe hanging by her mirror. Her chest constricted at the prospect of abandoning these things. The concern wasn't for their value, but for the thought behind each gift. One dress she hadn't yet worn had been carefully selected and presented to her the year before by her favorite handmaid Auriel, the one who perished at the end of Ralof's sword. For it to go to waste would be a shame, especially since Meleske was aware of how long Auriel had saved up to purchase it.

"Faendal," she said quietly, the sound of his name surprising the Bosmer still picking up after her. "The wagon at Whiterun. How far west does it go?"

"To Markarth. It's right at the border to High Rock," he replied as he stuffed the last of the hide scraps into his pack.

"Then that will be my next destination."

"Really? I would have thought that you'd be heading south to make your way back to Summerset Isle."

The smile she sent him was grim and unsettling. "I hail from the Isle of Balfiera, off the coast of Wayrest. Did I fail to mention that I am next in line to rule Direnni Tower?"

x-x-x-x-x

**A/N:** Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome and encouraged. Thank you!


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